


Solitaire

by sarcasticsra



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, First Meetings, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Pre-Canon, Queer Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elias rediscovers what it means to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [单人纸牌](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511844) by [mow9986](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mow9986/pseuds/mow9986), [sarcasticsra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra)



> Augh, I wrote a sad. Now I need to go write something to make myself happy again. Thanks for the beta, Kelly!

Carl Elias idly shuffles the cards in his hands a few times, considering them; he deals out a game of solitaire, setting the deck in front of him when he’s done. 

There’s a lot to like about this game, he thinks, as he studies the layout. It’s a combination of strategy and luck, of skill and blind chance. He moves an ace to its home spot and flips over a facedown card—the jack of spades.

It occurs to him that while he may be playing solitaire, this is the first time he’s played it alone in almost thirty years.

\---

The Whalen Home for Boys, from the outside, seemed like it could be a decent place to live, Carl supposed. Maybe it used to be, years ago; maybe its older former inhabitants looked back on it fondly, a comforting place they once called home. Maybe they reminisced about making new friends, growing up easily, knowing there were people looking out for them. Maybe, once upon a time, there wasn’t a room on the third floor that everyone avoided, and maybe no one ever woke up screaming.

Carl didn’t actually think any of that was true, of course. He had stopped believing in fairytales a long time ago. 

“Home sweet home,” Bruce muttered from beside him as they walked up to the door. There was a tell-tale van parked out front, and that could only mean one thing: someone new was transferring in.

“Right on schedule,” Carl said. Jack Agatha had turned eighteen almost a week ago, leaving an empty bed behind. It never took more than a week for a vacancy to be filled; he and Bruce had been keeping track. Neither of them was convinced it was entirely on the up-and-up.

“We should find Ricky,” Bruce said, and Carl nodded as they walked inside

Ricky Alvarez wasn’t the youngest boy in the home, but he was small enough and scrawny enough that everyone assumed he was. He was also the best kid to go to if you needed information; no one paid him any attention, slipping in and out of room after room without so much as a backward glance—and that was a secret he and Bruce had kept to themselves. If the older kids weren’t smart enough to figure it out on their own, Carl saw no reason to help them. After all, they’d never helped him.

“Hey, Ricky,” Carl said when they found him alone in the room he shared with seven other kids closer to his age. Everyone else was probably out trying to figure out who the new kid was. “Got something for you.” He slipped him a candy bar, his favorite, and Ricky grinned, taking it and hiding it in a hollowed-out book he plucked from the middle of the room’s bookshelf. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Wanna hear about the new kid?”

“Whatever you know,” said Carl.

“Not much, it’s kinda weird,” Ricky said. “His name’s Anthony Marconi, fourteen, used to be in juvie, scar on his face—it’s badass, you gotta see it—but I couldn’t find out what he done. PGs are keeping a tight lid on this one.”

“Shit,” Bruce said. “Last time that happened, we got stuck with Thomas.”

“We got rid of Thomas,” Carl pointed out. “If we need to, we can do it again.”

“Just hope we manage it before he gets everyone sent to the room for a week straight,” Bruce muttered.

Carl grimaced; that hadn’t been a good month for anyone. “He’s going to be in our room,” he said. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Thanks for the info, Ricky.”

“No problem,” Ricky called back as they left. The hallways were more crowded now; wherever everyone had been holed up, they were clearly starting to head back to their rooms. The new kid would be on his way there too.

“Ready to meet our new roommate?” Carl asked Bruce.

“If I actually had a choice…” he muttered.

\---

Elias flips over his first three cards. One of them is an ace, but it’s buried behind the two of clubs and the five of diamonds. He can use the five but not the two, so he ignores it, flipping over three more cards.

 _You don't care about the aces._ That's Anthony’s voice in his head, young, amused. _That’s not how most people play._

_The aces aren’t the objective. They’re a distraction. Like someone else I could name._

_Please_ , he scoffs, _you like having someone to watch._

_It’s called solitaire for a **reason**._

He uses a card from his pile.

\---

Weirdly enough, only the new kid—Anthony—was in their room when they got there. Carl was surprised the others weren’t all over him yet, poking and prodding and figuring out where he’d fall in line. He saw the scar Ricky had mentioned—it _was_ kind of cool, like he was a gangster from the movies—and that he was purposefully ignoring them.

“Should we call you Anthony or just go straight to Scarface?” Carl asked, after a moment of silence.

Anthony turned and looked at him, expression not intimidating so much as unimpressed. “How the hell do you know my name?”

“I know who to ask,” Carl said, shrugging. “I’m Carl. This is Bruce.”

Anthony snorted. “Carl Elias?” he asked. “And Bruce Moran?”

“Are we famous?” Bruce asked curiously.

“The adults seem to think you’re ‘trouble.’”

Bruce smirked. “Gotta love the PGs,” he said.

“They say the nicest things,” Carl agreed, amused. 

“PGs?” Anthony asked.

“Prison Guards,” Carl said. “They think it means Parental Guidance.”

Anthony snorted again. “Nice.”

“How’d you get everyone to leave you alone while you unpack?” Bruce asked. Not that Anthony actually appeared to _have_ much to unpack, but Carl had been wondering the same thing.

Anthony grinned, sharp. “They asked why I was in juvie. I told ‘em.”

“What,” Bruce said, “did you kill someone or something?”

“Yep,” he said, meeting their eyes.

“Yeah?” Carl asked, watching him. “Who’d you kill, then?”

If possible, Anthony’s grin got sharper. “My old man. Slit his throat.”

Carl exchanged a look with Bruce. “Huh. He deserve it?”

“Goddamn right he did,” Anthony said.

“Good,” Carl said, and Anthony’s eyes narrowed.

Bruce started laughing. “You two were made for each other,” he said, sitting down on his bed.

\---

Elias uncovers a red queen and moves the jack of spades he flipped over earlier. That gives him an applicable ten, and then the nine, and then the ace of clubs, which he moves to its home spot.

 _You can get that other ace_ , and Anthony’s voice sounds older, no longer like it did as a teenager.

_I’m aware, thank you._

_Am I distracting you again?_

_You were never a distraction._

He eventually circles back to that ace, but by the time that happens, he’s uncovered all the hidden cards. He’s going to win now no matter what he does. 

\---

Once Bruce got comfortable—or at least as comfortable as it was possible to get on their beds—he glanced over at Carl and added, “You’d better tell him the rules.”

“Pretty sure I already got that lecture,” Anthony said.

“Not those rules. The real rules,” Carl said. “Like if you’ve got something you want to keep, find a hiding place for it, and nothing stupid like under your mattress or in your pillow. It’s got to be creative, or someone’ll find it.”

“I spent the last four years in juvie, and I’m not stupid.”

“Juvie doesn’t have the room, though,” Bruce muttered.

“No one uses the third floor rec room if they can help it,” Carl continued. “There’s a reason for that. Piss off the PGs and you’ll find out. If you do piss them off, do it on your own. Don’t drag anyone else down with you.”

“Gee, thanks, boss,” Anthony said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Any more words of wisdom?”

“Nah. You have to figure most of it out for yourself. It’s part of living here,” Carl said. “So you slit your father’s throat, huh? That how you got the scar?”

“Obviously,” he said. “You looking for pointers?”

“My father had my mother killed when I was three,” Carl said calmly. “I’ve spent the last couple years thinking about how I might return the favor.”

\---

 

He finishes the game up, even though he knows the outcome; he’s never been particularly fond of leaving unfinished business, no matter how trivial. He can certainly wait, if that becomes necessary, and he has incredible patience, but in his opinion, everything eventually needs an ending. 

Once the game is over, he gathers up all the cards and shuffles them absently before neatly stacking them on the table. He glances at the empty chair next to him, the space where Anthony should be, working on something and occasionally asking for input or just simply watching him play.

He misses that.

\---

Anthony eyed Carl for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. Bruce was the one to break it, in the end: “There’s an actual list,” he said. “Of ways to do it, I mean.”

Carl nodded in confirmation. “So, yes,” he said, “pointers are always helpful.”

Anthony sat down on his bed. “I dunno,” he said finally. “Using a knife’s hard work. You ever think about just blowing him the fuck up?”

Carl sat down his bed as well, considering that. “That could work,” he said, thoughtful. “Although—is it personal enough, do you think?”

He leaned back. “You can make it personal,” he said. “As long as he knows, I think. As long as he knows it’s you… yeah, it’s personal enough.”

Carl looked over at Bruce, who nodded. “I’ll add it to the list,” he said.

“Thanks,” he said, and reached over between his bed and the wall. There was a crevice positioned in just the right spot, nearly invisible unless you knew it was there. He had found it a few months after he transferred here and managed to deepen it enough to hide a pack of playing cards, the same ones he now grabbed out of it. 

Anthony was still watching him, which wasn’t a surprise. “What’re you gonna play?” he asked. “Poker?”

Bruce snorted. Carl only smiled. “Nah. Solitaire.”

“Huh,” he said. “Mind if I watch?”

\---

_You never ask to play anything. Not even Go Fish or Crazy Eights._ He remembers, one night, finally asking Anthony about this, after a nice dinner and two bottles of excellent wine.

_I’ll play Crazy Eights with you, boss, if you want._

Elias smiles to himself, remembering Anthony’s teasing tone, the affection hidden behind the word ‘boss,’ the irresistible smile, both smug and sincere.

_I’m just curious about why._

He can picture the night as though it were happening right now: Anthony smiles, takes a drink from his wine glass, and meets his eyes. _I like watching your mind work._

\---

Carl had to admit, if only to himself, that he hadn’t been expecting that question. “You want to watch me play solitaire?”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “That okay?”

He could feel Bruce’s eyes on him without even looking up, questioning. Instead of answering him, Carl nodded. “That’s fine. Try not to distract me.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he said, firing off a mock salute. “Mind if I come over there?”

“You won’t be able to see anything from there,” Carl said, and Anthony got up. He sat on the edge of Carl’s bed, watching as he carefully dealt out the cards.

“Wow. Two aces right off the bat,” he said.

Carl gave him a look. “You said you wouldn’t be distracting.”

Anthony mimed zipping his lips, but he smirked. Carl finally looked up, the weight of Bruce’s eyes on him too heavy to ignore. Bruce didn’t say anything out loud, but he didn’t have to; his expression was clear.

_See? You’re made for each other._

\---

Elias remembers raising an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look. _You don’t get to see that enough every day?_

_It’s different. You’re not playing an opponent. You don’t need to outsmart anyone. You just have to look at the cards you’ve dealt and play them as best you can. And you always win._

He can still hear Anthony’s voice, see his smile. He remembers leaning forward, touching his arm, eyes crinkling as he smiles back at him. 

_With you watching my back, how could I lose?_

He can’t, of course. Now, more than ever, he needs that to be true.


End file.
